


Say It Clear

by mardia



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: Beltane, F/M, Future Fic, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an expectant hum in the air on Beltane, everyone waiting for nightfall, for the dancing and the music, for the chance to choose someone to love, whether for a night or for a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hariboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hariboo/gifts).



> Major thanks to my betas for looking this over and reassuring me it didn't suck, and making sure I didn't tweak it endlessly. Title and summary lyric comes from the Fiona Apple song "Dull Tool".

The days before the Beltane festival are a hum of activity, both in the castle and beyond its walls. The usual festivities and bonfires were a tradition upheld within the kingdom for centuries, but they had been banned throughout Ravenna's reign.

It was one of the first things Snow had decided to bring back, and looking at everyone's excitement—feeling that echo of it within herself—she's more glad than ever that she had. There's an expectant hum in the air on Beltane, everyone waiting for nightfall, for the dancing and the music, for the chance to choose someone to love, whether for a night or for a lifetime. 

Several of Snow's ladies-in-waiting are making gifts for their intendeds on the day of the festival, flower wreaths or small tokens, and Snow finds herself charmed by their simplicity. She gently touches one of the flowers Greta is weaving into a wreath, asking, “And who is this for?”

Greta flushes charmingly. “For Ingrid,” she says, in a hushed whisper, glancing over at where Ingrid, another of Snow's ladies, is plucking idly at her lute with her slim dark brown fingers. “I've been—I've wished to speak for some time and tonight..."

“Tonight's a good night to do it,” Snow suggests with a smile. Snow is not—and perhaps never will be—as light and as merry as some of her ladies and courtiers. She is plain and honest in her speech, sometimes too much so, as her ambassadors are fond of lamenting. But a bit of encouragement is not beyond her, and like nearly everyone else at court, Snow has seen the way Greta and Ingrid look at each other when they think no one else is looking. So Snow leans in and says reassuringly, “The red flowers will look lovely in her hair,” and smiles at the delight in Greta's face. 

"And you, Your Highness?" Greta asks next. "Have you—"

Snow is silent, and Greta cuts herself off, eyes wide. "Your Highness, I apologize, I didn't mean to—”

“No, it's all right,” Snow says quickly. “I—" She stops, then admits, "There is someone, I hope.”

Greta's eyes grow even wider—Snow has famously not encouraged a single suitor at court, no matter how the ambassadors moan and the Archbishop laments, not since she refused William's proposal—but thankfully, she does not press. She just says, gently, “Then I wish you luck.”

Snow smiles, relieved. “And I wish you luck as well.”

*

Snow's first few days as queen—not crowned yet, but still queen—had been a blur.

First, there was the question of what to do with Ravenna's defeated army, or the courtiers who'd bowed to her on one knee but now pleaded for mercy. Both groups, soldiers and courtiers, now all swore they'd been enchanted by Ravenna's magic—and perhaps they had been. Who could say otherwise now, with Ravenna gone?

Never mind the kingdom itself, which had nearly been bled dry to serve Ravenna's never-ending hunger. People were hungry and exhausted, full of distrust and fear.

All these problems, and only Snow was expected to solve them. At least that was what it felt like. 

Snow took to the habit of getting up from her too-soft bed on sleepless nights—of which there were many—and began walking the halls of the castle, trying to relearn it again, see it as her home instead of as a battlefield, instead of the site where her life changed forever.

One of those nights, she slipped outside to the courtyard, standing beneath the old apple tree. She was thankful it was still there, still unchanged in a world that was constantly shifting beneath Snow's feet.

Snow lost track of time there, standing underneath that tree in the darkness, until a voice cut through her reverie. “People are getting worried.”

She opened her eyes and was unsurprised to find him there. “I’m fine,” she said immediately, and then added his name after a moment, even though she was still unused to saying it aloud. “Eric, I’m fine.”

If he was surprised at her using his name, he didn’t show it. Snow had noticed the way that, even now, everyone referred to him as the Huntsman, and had resolved not to be one of them. 

Eric started moving towards her, saying again, “People are getting worried. You don’t sleep; you just walk the halls at night like a restless ghost.”

Snow flushed a little, glad that he could not see her reddened cheeks in the moonlight. “No one has said anything to me.”

“You’re their savior and their queen. Of course they don’t want to criticize,” Eric pointed out, and Snow frowned at the idea. “Instead,” Eric continued, “I got some rather strong hints that if I were to ease your mind, people would be most grateful for it. So here I am.” He looked at her, and then said gruffly, "I thought you'd be happy now, instead of so...anxious."

"I am," Snow said quickly, too quickly. She flushed harder and said, "I am happy to be here. I just..." She held her hands out wordlessly, because she didn’t know how to explain it, the magnitude of the task before her, the weight of the history she carried.

Instead of speaking, she just looked at him, and remembered the sound of his voice as he wept over her, _for_ her—

“Will you stay?” Snow asked, the question sounding too abrupt, jarring in the summer quiet. “At the court, will you stay?”

In the moonlight, it was easy to see him blink with surprise. “I hadn’t thought to,” he admitted. “I—there’s no place for me here.”

“Of course there is,” Snow said. “I would like—I want you to stay.” _With me_ , she thought but didn’t yet say aloud.

“Why?”

“I need someone I can trust,” Snow said after a long pause, but that wasn’t all—she needed someone who saw her, saw her truly, not as a symbol of something greater than herself, but as a person of worth on her own. She’d heard it in his voice when he’d wept over her in Duke Hammond’s castle—he’d wept for _her_ , not for a symbol or a cause. 

She needed that now, that clarity of sight, that reminder that she was human and fallible. 

“I want you to stay,” Snow said again, baldly and yet somehow not honestly enough.

His gaze flickered away from her face, and when he said heavily, “It’s an honor to serve you, Your Highness,” Snow couldn’t decide if that was a yes or a no. She still didn’t know his answer until the day of her coronation, when she glimpsed his face in the crowd at last, his gaze clear and steady on her.

*

It takes far longer than Snow wishes, but at last, the sun sets, the bonfires are lit, and Beltane finally begins.

Snow sends all of her servants away, all her maids and ladies, and tries not to sigh in relief—after so many years of forced solitude, Snow had never thought she’d come to value being alone again—but that was before living at the center of a busy court.

And if tonight goes well, Snow won’t be alone on Beltane after all. 

Her heart thumping in her chest, Snow hastily dresses herself—going past her ornate gowns and choosing instead a simpler gown, running her hands over the pale blue silk of her long sleeves to steady herself. 

She glances at the mirror once before leaving her bedchamber, and the reflection is nothing unusual—her dark hair falling over her shoulders, a faint flush of excitement in her cheeks. She looks well enough, she thinks. 

She looks like herself, and that is enough to begin with.

*

"What would you have of me?" Eric asked her, days after her coronation.

Snow took a moment to gather herself, and said softly, shaking her head, "There's...there's so much to be done." More, she feared, than could be done in a single lifetime, in her lifetime. "It will take time, I know. To bring the kingdom back to where it before she—before Ravenna's rule."

Eric listened to her patiently, saying nothing. 

"I want you to go out into the kingdom," Snow said at last. "I want you to go out and tell me which villages are short on food, which areas are run by corrupt stewards, where the need for help is greatest. I want you to find these places, and then come back and report to me."

She tilted her head up at him, and asked after a moment, hesitant, "Would this please you?"

Eric looked at her. "Would it please me?" he repeated, clearly surprised.

"Yes," Snow says, a little bewildered at his response. "I—would not have you do something against your will." She licked her lips, and said more quietly, "I would not have this be just an obligation."

She knew that after the battle, Duke Hammond had offered Eric a reward, told him to name his price, and that Eric had politely refused him. He had refused the reward and stayed here at her request—she knew his loyalty, somewhere deep in her bones that she didn't look at too closely. 

It humbled her, and she wanted, so badly, to be worthy of that, to find a way to give thanks to him for what he'd done for her. 

And in the end, Snow had realized the only way to do that was to give him a choice, a real one, no matter how badly she might want him to stay.

Eric's mouth quirked a little, the faintest edge of a smile, and he said at last, "Aye, I think it will please me at that."

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then Snow was beaming up at him, in relief and delight.

His answering smile seemed a little rusty, almost shy, but Snow was still glad for the sight of it.

*

The castle is nearly deserted, and there’s no one to witness her slipping out—not into the town, not to the bonfires, but into the courtyard, sighing with relief once she feels the night air against her hot cheeks. 

Eric is already there waiting for her, beneath the apple tree, looking up through the branches and into the night sky, but he turns as he hears her approach. “Got your letter in time,” he says, and his smile is easy and open in the moonlight. “I must say, I’m surprised you wanted to meet here, thought you’d be out frolicking with everyone else.”

Snow steps forward, closer and closer, and says, with only a little breath to steady herself, “I wanted to see you instead.”

It’s nothing but the plain truth, and she can see it sink in, Eric’s eyes widening a little, the way he ducks his head and looks at her sidelong as he says, almost testing her, “Well, it’s good to be missed.”

Any other time, and Snow might have smiled and left it at that. 

But tonight—tonight she has no time for pretense. “I did,” she says, watching him for his reaction. “I did miss you,” and it’s a relief to say the words aloud at last.

*

For the first few months of her rule, Snow was petrified. 

Ridiculous on the surface, when she thought about what she’d had to do to regain the kingdom in the first place, but it was true nonetheless. Her bravery was being written into song by the bards, praised throughout the kingdom. And yet for weeks and months after her coronation, Snow would wake every morning in a soft bed, safe and secure, and be absolutely terrified that this would be the day she would make the one mistake she couldn’t come back from.

There were times when Snow would think it was easier to be a weapon going into battle for one day than to become a just and wise ruler for a lifetime.

But she learned. She learned because she had to, because there was no one else, because the faith of those she knew spurred her on when she thought she would falter.

And slowly, she gathered those she trusted around her—Muir, who stayed on as one of her counselors, Greta, who stepped forward to be a lady-in-waiting, the blush of youth back in her cheeks now that Ravenna was dead. There were more, scholars who stayed in hiding during Ravenna’s rule, wise women and sorcerers who hid their magic, even old servants who managed to escape the castle the night that Ravenna usurped the throne. 

Duke Hammond left, eventually, for his own castle and estates, but not before kissing Snow’s hand and bowing his knee to her in a final show of loyalty. “I am relieved, Your Majesty, to see the kingdom in steady hands once more.”

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” Snow said to him, inadequate words, she’d felt, but all she knew to say. “William—”

Duke Hammond inclined his head, an indication that he knew what had happened between them, the question William had asked, and the refusal Snow had to give in reply. “He will recover, don’t fear.”

Snow swallowed and took him at his word, but her heart ached nonetheless. 

It had been Anna who’d eased her mind a little. Anna, who had agreed to a spot on Snow’s council at last, bringing Lily with her to life at Snow’s court. “You’re doing well, you know,” Anna said after a council meeting, looking at Snow with compassion. “Better than I think you realize.”

“Am I?” Snow asked, and she could hear all of her insecurities and fears rising up to the surface in that question.

Anna didn’t hesitate. “Of course you are.” She’d paused for a moment, and then gripped Snow’s shoulders. “Trust in yourself, Your Majesty. Your heart is good, your instincts are good. All that is left is for you to trust them.”

*

He doesn’t move away as she approaches, just watches her carefully, and Snow swallows.

She’s brought nothing with her tonight, no garland to place on his head, nothing but herself. 

“Tonight is Beltane,” she says softly, stopping at last right in front of him, close enough to touch if she wanted to. 

“So I’d noticed,” Eric replies, his gaze fixed on her face. 

Snow takes a breath. “People in the kingdoms have been choosing their intendeds tonight, you know. Anyone can choose tonight, if they wish.” She knows she is not imagining the sudden hush, the pause in the very air before she says, “I would choose you, if you’d have me.”

She gives in at last, just a little, and reaches out to touch him, the rasp of his beard sending a spark through her palm. 

Eric’s throat works, and then he says, careful, “In the countryside, they don’t call me Huntsman, you know. They call me the Queen’s man, say that I’m your eyes and ears out in the world." He's quiet for a moment, then says at last, "I am, you know, through and through."

She’s been craving this for what feels like a lifetime, and yet it still comes as a shock when his hand curves lightly around her waist, his hand warm through the thin silk of her gown. 

“Eric,” she breathes out, and this much is enough for her, she thinks, being able to touch him like this, his beard scraping against her palms, the warmth of his body, feeling his gaze sink into her like a balm. 

“I am yours if you want me,” Eric says finally, his words devastating in their honesty, and Snow kisses him almost before she can think of anything else.

She loses track of time, everything narrowing down to the two of them together, tangled in each other beneath that old tree—the heat of his mouth on hers, the strength of his hands as he clutches at her, Snow shivering in delight at the feel of his body pressed against her own. 

At last, Eric pulls his mouth away—Snow would protest, but this means she can kiss him elsewhere, his jawline and the spot at his throat where his pulse thrums beneath her lips. “We should go inside,” he says, and his voice is a gratifying rasp.

“Why?” Snow asks, distracted with better matters at that moment.

“It’s not—not fit for—”

That gets Snow’s attention, and she says, firmly, “Don’t be silly.” Eric looks down at her, desire and uncertainty written all over his face, and Snow takes his hand. “I want you. Here and now, I want you.”

Snow’s heart is pounding as she takes Eric’s hand, draws him out a little from under the tree, Eric unresisting all the while.

He’s beautiful in the moonlight, she thinks, and kisses him again, her hands fumbling with his tunic.

Eric is almost unnaturally still beneath her hands for a moment, and then he’s moving in a sudden rush—clutching at her, his hands moving from her hair to her hips to the small of her back, like he can’t settle, can’t decide where he wants to touch her first. 

Finally, finally, his hands move to the laces of her dress, deftly loosening them, and Snow shivers as his hands find the bare skin of her spine. She pulls back a little so as to slip the dress down past her shoulders, unthinking, then she catches sight of his awed expression as he sees her, half-bared in the moonlight, and pauses for a moment before deliberately stepping back, and letting the dress fall at her feet. 

It was odd—Snow had once thought that if they ever ended up here, in this moment, she would feel afraid. 

She doesn’t. Instead—instead she feels almost powerful, so sure of herself that she could almost feel drunk on it. But with the way he looks at her—with the way he looks at her, being afraid is impossible.

“Touch me,” Snow says softly, and Eric does.

*

Much later, Snow is curled up against Eric’s chest while they lie together in the soft grass. “We should go back inside,” Eric says, his voice a warm rumble in Snow’s ear, his hand resting on her bare thigh. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

Snow hums and turns a little to kiss his jaw, his beard prickling her lips. “Not yet,” she murmurs against his cheek, and Eric turns his head to kiss her. 

“Mm,” he concedes after a moment, or two. “We have some time yet, I suppose.”

They have all the time in the world, Snow knows, and the knowledge rests in her bones, heavy and sweet. But for now, she chooses to lie here and simply kiss him, and to let the world spin around them both.


End file.
